The Drunken Waste and the Sorry Whore:A Love Story
by mrs.milfoy
Summary: A piece about addictions and recoveries and feeling and forgetting and yelling and screaming and the healing power of beating the crap out of someone you love. And smut. And incest. Did I mention incest?
1. Drunk

The Wasted Drunk and the Sorry Whore:

A Love Story

_Drunk_

There was a cufflink on the bottom stair. Narcissa blinked at it, then bent and lifted it. The matching onyx bauble glinted at her from a few feet away, on the foyer floor. She collected that one, as well, eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Draco?" She called.

Her son did not answer. She moved down the hall, peered into the drawing room. He wasn't there. But his tie lay crumpled on the Persian rug ahead. She draped it over an arm, and looked into the dining room. He was there, slouching in his father's chair, shirt unbuttoned and skewed, one dark-trousered leg bent over the chair's arm.

An empty firewhiskey bottle was overturned before him, and a new one was opened. Narcissa's lips pursed impatiently and she approached. "Suppose I should have known I would find you here." She picked up the emptied bottle.

"Helloooo, mother." Draco grinned up at her, one eye a bit wider than the other.

"You're sotted," she groused.

"You're beautiful," he replied.

She sighed. "Son…" But she trailed off. Helplessly, she dropped into the chair across from him and cradled her head in her hands. The cuff links clattered to the floor and she took a deep breath. "Draco. It's been two months since your father's sentencing. And six months since the…since the battle at Hogwarts." She looked up at him. "It's time to move on. To come to terms and climb out of this bottle."

Draco chuffed at her. "I'm not in that bottle, mum." He pointed to it. "_You_ ridiculous woman. I'm right here in this chair!"

"Yes!" She snapped back. "And a drunken waste! As you have been for weeks now! And I'm tired of seeing you this way."

"Seeing me?" Unsteadily, he leaned toward her. "You see me? There's a bloody shock."

"What?" She tensed.

"You've barely spoken to me these last months," he slurred. "Unless it's to shout at me about my…messy hair or my fucking useless, stupid bollocking wrinkled shirt…" He took a belt of firewhiskey. "Shite. Surely stupid utter priceless _shite… _Hell, you're hardly even home anymore!"

Her lip trembled.

Draco pointed at her. "Don't do it," he warned. "Don't you fucking bloody cry. I will – I will – I will…I will _not_ hit you, witch." He hiccuped violently. "But I'll shake the hell out of you. Don't you doubt it."

"Oh, Draco."

"Oh, Narcissa." He propped his head on his elbow. "Why am I miserable?" He asked. "Hm? Can you tell me?"

"No!" She wrung her hands. "I don't know!"

"Well, I'll tell you." He blew a raspberry and collected his thoughts. Finally, he spoke very slowly and deliberately, clear despite alcohol's blur. "I don't give…a fairy's _fuck_…for my father." He shrugged at her wince. "And I don't _care_…one wilting _whit_…what the Daily Fucking Faggoty Prophet…says about the Malfoys. Us." He gestured needlessly between the two of them. "I have got…goddamn guilt, yes." He nodded. "But I have got…that goddamn guilt…under my thumb." He pressed his thumb to the table. It squeaked as he wrenched it around. "This thumb, in fact."

He looked at his mother, bleary eyes suddenly somewhat clear. "Now. Tell me why…_you_ are miserable."

"Me?" Her blue eyes widened.

"Don't look so bleeding _innocent_," Draco drawled. "Yes, you. You are miserable, too." He took another swig of the golden libation and gave not one grimace at the burn. "All day…tottering about all clickety-clack in your…fucking _shoes. _Telling me to put my pants on. Making your damn…dicking…doilies or what-the-fuck are they, mum?" He looked at her plaintively and made a gesture of crocheting. "The little wee…wotsits that you…" He shook his head. "Never mind. Doesn't matter."

"My son is an alcoholic," Narcissa said.

"My mother is a frigid cunt," he replied.

"Draco!" Her eyes glistened. "You don't mean that!"

"Did you mean when you said I was an alcoholicolic?"

"Well, I –"

"Bitch!" He slapped the table. "You're a hypocrite."

She fiddled with his tie in her lap. "We should get you help."

"We should fuck."

"Dammit, Draco!" She flushed brightly and stood. "This is what I mean. You do this – drink like this – and then you say _horrible_ things!" She pushed her chair in. "I don't have to listen to it. I'm leaving. I hope you don't drown in your own vomit."

"Wait!" He stood to follow her, but tripped himself and crashed to the floor.

"Draco!" She was at his side in a second, holding his head. He'd burst his lip on the floor. "Oh, my son. I'm so sorry!" She stroked his hair, and without thinking, kissed his split lip.

He grinned up at her. "You've pretty lips, mother."

She sighed. "I want you to stop drinking."

"I want _you_."

"Draco," she spoke firmly. "Show me you care about yourself. Show me you can stop this behavior and we will work _together_ to get well again. Both of us! Just show me –"

"Mum."

"What?"

"Show me your tits." He laughed.

She dropped his head. "We will talk about this later. After you've…slept it off." She stood, dusting her skirt onto him.

"Mother." He pushed up onto his hands. "I promise you…"

"You promise me what?"

He closed his eyes solemnly for a moment. "I promise you…I am going to fucking puke." And he did – all over his hands and the floor.

Narcissa stepped back nimbly from the spreading pool of sick. She watched and waited while he retched four more times. "Good," she said. "That should make you feel a bit better." He groaned. "I'm glad I took up the rug." She pulled her wand from her sleeve and vanished his vomit. "Can you stand?"

Draco rolled to his back and looked up at her with unfocused eyes. "No. Can you lie down?"

She huffed, knelt and took his arm. "Come on. I'm taking you to bed."

"Fucking brilliant." Draco leaned heavily on his mother's smaller frame. Twice he sat on the stairs, head lolling while she caught her breath. When she couldn't pull him to his feet again, she levitated him the rest of the way.

When they reached his room, she complained. "I should let the elf do this. Put my drunken son to bed."

"The elf wants to bugger me."

"I hope it does so."

He snorted.

"You reek," she told him, undressing him on the edge of his bed. "Lie down."

Naked, he complied. She covered him with his plush duvet and produced a potion phial. "Drink this," she thrust it at him.

"What's it?" He struggled with the stopper.

"For hangover," she replied.

"Mm." He knocked the phial back like a champ and tossed it behind his headboard. "Thanks."

She shook her head at his antics. "Expect a very serious conversation when you wake, dragon."

He nodded, already closing his eyes. "Mother."

"Yes?" She smoothed his forehead with a worried hand.

"I love you."

"I love you, too, son."

"Not like a son," he murmured. "Part of my problem, I suppose…"

She swallowed thickly. "That's very complicated, Draco."

"Love always is," he replied. "And a pain in the fucking arse." His breaths grew deep and regular.

"Too true," Narcissa whispered. She blinked away her tears and perched beside him. If liquor was his crutch, he was hers. She shivered, remembering all his flirting words. "Easy to become addicted," she murmured, running a finger down his face. She traced the line of his graceful neck and the sharp jut of his clavicle. "Best to never even taste…" She promptly left the manor.


	2. Sorry

The Drunken Waste and the Sorry Whore:

A Love Story

_Sorry_

Draco hurled another teacup to the marble kitchen floor. "Fucking radgey cunt," he muttered. She'd raised new wards on the wine cellars, and he'd been trying for hours now to break them. "Fuck your fucking witchery, you fucking self-righteous –" he sent a saucer flying " - frigid –" he drop-kicked the fruit bowl " – know-it-all hen-pecking bitch!"

He leaned heavily against the counter, sweating and shaking. His stomach lurched and he grabbed it, doubled over. "Oh, I just need one fucking drink," he groaned. Just one. Just a shot, even – to ease the pains.

And where the fuck was that witch who said she'd care for him? Help him? She'd been gone all damned day – again. "I hope a house falls on her…" His head pounded insistently and he groaned. Staggering into the drawing room, he flopped into the chaise by the floo. He was freezing. Lit the cedar in the room's small fireplace. There was naught to do but wait, and rub his thumping temples.

Narcissa rubbed her temples as well. Perched on the edge of a strange bed, she sighed tiredly. A masculine hand rubbed down her sweaty back.

"Let me rest a bit, beautiful. And we'll go again. I owe you, don't I?"

She slid from the filthy sheets. "Don't bother, Ethan."

The wizard sat up. "Where are you going?"

She was gathering her scattered clothes from the hotel room floor. "I'm going home." She shut the lavatory door behind her and wand-tapped the shower nozzle. Steam billowed as the hot water flowed instantly.

She scrubbed intently, mouth a tight line. She could remove the sweat, the saliva, the spilt seed, but no soap seemed to dispel the slut she had become. She redressed herself almost violently, snapping her garters in self-flagellation. A drying charm made her hair puffy, so she efficiently bunned it.

Finally, she was together enough to face the mirror. "Damn," she muttered. One spider earring. She grimaced. The other was probably in the bedclothes. "Fine."

She was unsurprised to find her most recent blonde paramour still in the sheets. He propped on one elbow, his handsome face a little troubled. "You certainly don't believe in cuddling, do you?"

She disregarded this comment entirely, raised her wand. "Accio earring."

"Ow!" He jerked as the earring squiggled from somewhere beneath his arse. "Damn, witch!"

She affixed it primly and turned to the door.

"Really?" He spoke incredulously.

She paused and looked at him over her shoulder.

"You aren't even going to say –"

"Goodbye," she murmured. He made no reply, and her heels gauged the speed of her departure down the marble hallway.

Her son was waiting in the drawing room when she stepped from the floo. He looked like hell, and stared at her with such sullen accusation she had to brace herself. "Draco."

"Mother." She dusted a little floo powder from her trim skirt. "Where've you been?"

She did not meet his eyes, looking instead at the fitted black gloves she removed. "You were asleep when I stepped out. I apologize."

"I've been up for hours. Where have you _been_?"

"I went to Diagon Alley. To see the solicitor."

"We just saw the solicitor Wednesday."

"There were some papers he –"

Draco was upon her in an instant, shocking her speechless by taking her jaw roughly in his hands. He shifted her head and curled his lip. "Solicitor do _this_?" He pressed a harsh finger to her neck, to the love bite there.

_Shite. Missed that._ She shrugged away from him. "Draco."

"What?" He put his hands into his pockets expectantly. "Something you want to tell me, mum? Stepfather on the way, perhaps? Shall I prepare to bond over quidditch talk?"

She flushed angrily, moved toward the drawing room archway. "Don't be ridiculous."

He grabbed her arm roughly. "Fucking listen to me, witch. I've sweat like a mudblood roustabout all this day in _agony_ thanks to your boorish wards. It won't hurt for you to give me the benefit of the doubt and let me have one goddamn drink!"

"It's for your own good!" She yanked her arm from his grip, breaking the delicate silver clasp on her satin clutch. The purse thudded to the floor, spilling out its contents.

Narcissa sighed at the inconvenience and dropped to a crouch. She was collecting her wand, compact and lipstick when she saw Draco kneeling to help. His fingers closed around a palm-sized silver journal. She dropped the toiletries and lunged for the little book. "No!" She gasped. "I'll get it!"

But her desperation incensed his curiosity immediately and he snatched the booklet. "No, mum! Please, let me help!" He stood, backing away from her reaching hands, opening his find.

"Draco, don't!" She stood quickly and nearly stumbled over her own feet. Her fingers wrapped around his shoulders when he turned away from her. "Please!" Her voice was tight and alarmed.

But her son – taller and a sight tougher than she – brushed her away like a speck. Defeated, she slumped and watched him flip through condensed pages of her neat script. Tears moistened her eyes as his expression morphed to revulsion. She folded her arms, wishing she could disappear.

Draco turned to her slowly. He brandished the journal and scoffed, disbelieving. "I assume not _all _of these wizards are solicitors, mother?" He laughed ruefully. "I mean, not soliciting in any _business _sense, are they?" He stepped close to her. Sniffed her. "Explains why you smell of fresh soap. Can't come home reeking like a sorry whore, can we?"

She flinched. "Draco…"

"Because I'm the only one with a problem, aren't I?" He circled her like a shark. "Could it be I've found the source of your misery, Narcissa? In this book?" He flicked it open, lingering in her peripheral vision. "Must be at least 20 wizards here, mum. Maybe more?"

Her embarrassed blush deepened to a dark red. She stiffened when his hand stretched to her jacket collar and tugged it down.

He tisked. "Another mark. You'd do well to find one who respects you enough not to send you home looking like you were leech-bled. Eh?"

"Please," she whispered. "Just…just give it back."

He looked at the journal. "Lower the wards on the wine cellars."

Her nostrils flared and shoulders stiffened. "I won't."

"Then I won't give it back."

"This is different, son!"

"Is it? How so, mum? I've got the drink. You've got the…" He flapped the booklet against his palm. "Do you fuck them all? Or are there a few…unexplored territories here?"

Furious, she fired a hand to his face. But sobriety had sharpened Draco's senses to full cognizance and he seized her blow before it fell. She gasped at the grip he had on her arm. "Son…"

His lips twitched. "I've a feeling I'm not the one you want to slap, mother." Suddenly, he looked very sad and lowered her arm. He did not let it go. "Why?"

Her throat tightened. "Why do you drink?"

"I want to forget." His answer was quick. He'd known it for some time.

She nodded, thinking. "Well. I…I want to feel."

Before she could react, he tossed her journal into the crackling fire. It went up in a flare of green flame, obviously charmed somehow. Draco didn't want to imagine how. She was surprisingly calm about the loss – or simply defeated. He wasn't sure which.

"I need you," he said. "I need you to be here for me right now. Like you said you would be. Because I'm weak and I can't do this alone."

She nodded guiltily. "I'm sorry."

"Me, too." His grip on her arm became a comforting squeeze. "We need to help each other, mum."

"You'll help me feel again?" She asked over tears.

He nodded, feeling a frond of something unnameable begin to uncurl in his belly. "And you'll help me forget."

Narcissa shook her head, worried. "I don't know if I can, Draco."

The frond stretched fully to the sun. A knife edge glinted in his silver eyes. "Oh. I believe you can," he whispered.


	3. Love

The Drunken Waste and the Sorry Whore:

A Love Story

_Love_

They were prompt and elegant for a formal supper. Draco even seated his mother. It had been eleven days since their confrontation. They'd succeeded in distracting each other; reading, playing wizards' chess, walking the gardens. But they'd barely spoken beyond pleasantries, and today, they'd been tense and terse, intolerant of each other's company.

Draco's hands shook as he took up his wine glass. Not wine. Just juice. He scowled at the beverage, feeling like a child.

Narcissa's hands shook as she laid her serviette across her lap. She smiled at her son. Just smiled. A cool numbness made her cheeks too taut for much else.

"Mother."

"Son."

He served himself a helping of Welsh rarebit and motioned for her plate. She drank from her own glass and his lips tightened. "Is that wine?"

She set the glass beside her plate, stalled a moment. Sighed. "It is."

He chewed thoughtfully. Poked a potato fingerling. "I see. Don't suppose I could have a glass?"

Her hands went to her lap. "Draco. I don't think it would be a good idea."

"It's unfair."

Her nostrils flared. "This isn't about fairness. You asked me to help you –"

"By flaunting drink in my bloody face?" He leaned forward.

"I didn't think!" She snapped.

"You rarely think."

She seethed for a moment. "How dare you… How dare you insult your mother at her own table?" Her voice rose.

"_Your_ table?" He scoffed. "_I _am the Malfoy heir at this table, witch." He gestured to the firmament. "This belongs to me. You should count yourself fortunate to continue drawing your sleeping breaths beneath this roof considering your recent transgressions." He narrowed his eyes at her gaping shock. "Shall I write to father for his opinion on your behaviors? I'm certain he would adore news of his family in Azkaban's cold walls."

"You're a beast!" She shouted. "Even without the drink, you're a beast. I'm wasting my time on you."

"Bitch," he hissed. "You call me a beast? You're a whore. Or worse. What do the muggles call them? A slag. Carrying on like a commoner." He didn't see the movement of her hand til it was too late and he was splattered violently with red wine.

"There!" She spat. "There's your beloved drink. I never raised a son to call me names!" But there were tears on her face.

Draco scowled deeply and licked his lip. He wiped his face, thinking. "A fine vintage, mum. I didn't know sluts were versed in wine." He tossed the napkin to the table. "How would you feel…how would you feel if I were bringing lovely witches home by the dozens and fucking them in your bed?" Her lips trembled and she stared straight ahead. "That is how I feel watching you drink before me."

Her lips quirked. "You couldn't."

"What?" He cocked his head toward her.

She leveled a vile expression at him. "I said you couldn't. As with most sots, I expect you've gone…soft."

The final word fell from a prim, challenging smile.

For a moment, his face went entirely blank. Then, a tiny struggle of tics erupted there. He shoved away from the table with such suddenness she jumped. "Draco." Her voice held a warning, a hesitation.

"Oh, you're right to be scared, you filthy harlot." He gripped the back of her chair and pulled, whirled her to face him. "Your mouth has much to say without a cock in it. I can remedy that quickly." His tone was dangerous, eyes flashing steel flecks.

She shoved at his shoulders, sending him slightly off balance. "You're spitting in my face, you spoiled little shite! And I suspect you would have some expertise in the cock-in-mouth department." She stood. "How did the Dark Lord's taste?"

The slap was hard. More than a slap, really. He watched her reel from the force of it, felt his hand tingle and throb. It was as though he was a voyeur – not the one who'd hit, but the one who criticized the hitting. _Fuck._

She steadied herself on the back of her chair. Breathed deeply before swirling in a swish of satin to face him. A neatly manicured finger wiped the trickle of blood from her chin. She puked her next four words, nearly sobbing on each one. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. "Just like your father." He froze, the sympathy building in him staunched. She continued, chest rising and falling like a trapped rabbit's. "A hard hand and a soft cock. With the same amount of respect." She scoffed softly. "Lovely."

And he snapped. His hand shot to her throat, wrapped around it. Her back slammed into her plate and she gasped for breath, staring up at him with wide, timorous eyes. Hands clawed at his grip on her neck. Her vulnerability, his own anger – these things frightened him with their prevalence. His hand loosened, but didn't leave her neck.

"I'm not my father," he whispered. Her legs scrappled for purchase on either side of his thighs. He shoved her further up the table. "I'm _not _my father!"

She stilled beneath him, forcing a calm into her body. "Prove it," she bit out.

Her breath smelled of wine. He could practically taste it. He wanted to truly taste it. Instinct drove his actions; his mouth lingering over hers, enjoying her delicious, submissive puffs of air before licking her lips. She twisted her head to no avail, and barely aware of his actions, Draco kissed her.

She groaned protests. Her throat worked under his hand. His cock hardened quick and shocking in his trousers. This was his _mother… _He felt her breasts pressing against his forearm as she breathed, let his free hand grope one. The nipple hardened in his demanding palm. She made a choking sound. A click flicked beneath his gripping hand.

He pressed his hardness to her crotch. "Feel that, Narcissa?" She whimpered. "Told you I'd make you feel again."

He stared at her face. Saw the tears streaking down her temples. He felt his resolve evaporating. He was breaking. "I'm…I'm sorry," he said. Then he wept. The hand at her throat slid to her jaw, pushing her head into a salad bowl. "Did he ever say he was sorry? My father?" His head fell to her chest, face rubbing the softness of her breasts helplessly.

Her hands stroked his head, combed through his shaggy hair. "No, no he didn't." Her voice was hoarse.

"Forgive me?"

"I forgive you, Draco."

He looked up at her face, the pained expression there, the swelling of her cheek and coloring around her eye. She was the most fucking beautiful thing he'd ever seen. He kissed her with that conviction, and after a moment of not-quite-resistance, Narcissa kissed him back.

They tasted tears on each other's tongues; tears, forgiveness and apology; lust, iron and blood; the heat of a forbidden dessert, sugar cracking on top. And suddenly, Narcissa was waking up.

She _did_ feel – her son's firmness, his suppleness, the sinew of his muscle and the awkward jab of his bones. His lankiness fit her curviness. His desperation was the same as hers. She tugged free his tie, heard the tac pop off in the distance. Her fingers attacked his shirt buttons as his pawed and pulled the bodice of her frock.

They straightened, kissing and attempting to mesh bare skin, to shove back together the entity they'd once been – the oneness. Draco staggered backward til he hit the dining chair behind him. He fell into it, pulled his mother onto his lap.

He devoured her breasts, loving the way she abandoned herself to his mouth, loving that he could offer her this pleasure, this _feeling_ she craved. Head back, she moaned for him, hardened his aching cock even further. He answered her. "I want to be inside you, mother."

"Yes!" She grappled with his shoulders, kissed his ears, neck and back as he struggled to bunch her skirt over her hips. Her own hands were like sin incarnate unbuttoning his trousers. They tested his hardness and found it to their liking. "Gods, son…"

Then so simply, and yet so intricately, they were joined. She felt split open as she lowered onto him, pierced properly. And it had been so many ages since the hurt had been so bloody _good _and so bloody _bad_.

They growled in each other's mouths when she set a fast, demanding pace. Her cunt burned. Her hands held the sturdy mahogany spindles over her son's head. She needed steadying, grounding, or she just might dissipate in effervescent pleasure.

"Does it feel good?" The agony on his face was deceitful. It was willful delectation if anything.

"So good," she whispered. Her concentration was on that tiny bubble of yearning that jolted every time she fell on him. He was shaped for her, made for her. The dignity that held her together jarred and threatened to topple off the shelf.

"I think I've forgotten…"

"Wha?" She could barely hear him speaking over the rush of blood in her ears.

"I said I think I've forgotten!" The deceitful agony broke like a fever. "Fuck! Narcissa!" He thrust upward, forcing her over the cliff of sanity. Deportment dashed on the rocks below and she howled like a whore in his ear as she came with him.

The dining chair wobbled precariously, but the witch and wizard in it were secure in each other's arms. Narcissa kissed her son as if he was a babe again, and he kissed his mother as if she were a maid again. "I want more," she admitted feebly.

He heard shame in her voice, denied it. "I'm yours. Blood, muscle, bone and mind."

"And heart?" Her tears dried on his shoulder.

He closed his eyes. "That's always been yours, I think."

"We're sick."

"We're getting better."

"Perhaps." She wiped her face with her hand. "Can we go to bed?"

"Mmm." His softened cock began to harden inside her. "Together?"

She wiggled a little on the burgeoning erection. "Yes. Together."

"Very well."

They were broken people. Addicts. Drunk and sorry. Remorseful for all they had done and all they hadn't done. But drunk is always temporary. And sorry has to end somewhere. So together, they found something maybe lasting, and something to cease being sorry over: Love – in the strangest of guises – that great forever fix.


End file.
